Over the past year or so I have been selecting photographs I’ve taken on many travels, and put a story to them.
When I reached a milestone of 50, I decided to make them into a book, and, in doing so, I have gone through each and revised them, making some longer, and almost a short story.
50 photographs, 50 stories. I’ve called it, “Inspiration, Maybe”
It will be available soon.
Here’s the thing…
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
I was in the middle of a large building, sitting on a chair, a single light on above me creating a weird shadow in a circle of light. Beyond that circle was darkness.
But I was grateful there was no blindfold or gag.
It had to be one of the buildings on Benderby’s factory site. There were a number of older warehouses on the perimeter of the site, boarded up and in disrepair. I had heard rumours they were going to be refurbished or demolished, no one seemed to be able to decide what to do with them.
It was deathly quiet, but if I strained hard, I thought I could hear the sound of a generator not far away. Benderby’s had their own mini power station in case the main power grid went down, and I remembered that it was round the time for the six-monthly testing of the generators. I was definitely inside the Benderby complex.
So, did that make my captor one of Benderby’s men? Or was it Alex himself, trying to make a bold statement. I didn’t think he had that sort of aggressive behaviour in him, but he was a Benderby, and they all had violent streaks somewhere in their makeup.
“Good. You’re awake.” The distorted voice could be either male or female. I’d know more when I saw my assailant, bit it came from beside me and I tried to look in that direction. It was difficult because whoever tied me up did a good job.
There was also an echo, brought on by the emptiness of the building.
“What do you want? I’m not much good to you if you’re trying to break into the main building. I don’t have night access.”
“I’m not interested in the main building.”
“What are you interested in?”
“You.”
I had expected to hear the word treasure, not me.
“Sadly, I’m not that interesting.”
“So you say. But maybe it might have something to do with that friend of yours, Boggs.”
“Then it’s the treasure you’re after.”
“Me, personally, no. The people I work for, I guess. The word is that Boggs has a treasure map that his father left him.”
This person had to be acquainted with Rico, because only he could possibly know about that particular map, that is, if Boggs had told him, or told his mother, and Rico had overheard him.
Or Boggs had told this person, under duress, that I had the map, holding it for safekeeping. My mind started conjuring up all sorts of terrifying scenarios, all of which ended badly.
“If Rico told you that, then he was only trying to save his own skin. He’s been trying to barter a copy of something to the Benderby’s, a map he didn’t have and hadn’t been able to get off Boggs. If there is such a map, then Boggs has it.”
“I’m sure he told you about it, didn’t he?”
“What are best friends for, but whether I believed him is a different matter. He told me about a map his said his father had in his possession, and I know he’s been hunting high and low for it, but if he’s found it, then he hasn’t told me about it yet.”
I was trying to sound sincere, but fear has a way of making you sound, well, afraid.
My captor took a step forward into the fringe of the light. Dressed in black, with a mask, the body shape looked more like a woman than a man, a figure that could be disguised by the bulky outer clothing.
“Who are you?”
“That’s irrelevant. What I will do to you if you do not tell me the truth, is. Boggs told me you had the map. I believe he was telling the truth.”
So, this person had interrogated Boggs. It would not have taken much. Boggs was not the bravest soul I knew. At school, Boggs had always been the first to capitulate in any confrontation.
I wondered if they had searched him. Of course they had, and he didn’t have the map on him, which made it easier to deflect the onus to me.
But I didn’t have the map on me either. I took the precaution of hiding it away in a place no one would find except me. Now it was a matter of withstanding whatever this person decided was needed to extract ‘the truth’.
The problem was, I didn’t handle confrontation any better than Boggs had.
“And I’m telling you the truth when I tell you I haven’t got the map. But I do have one of those being peddled at Osborne’s bar. You can have that one if you like.”
I saw my captor shake their head. Disdain, or disappointment?
Two steps further into the circle of light, and the two slaps, either side of my face, very hard. The paid was instant and stinging, bringing tears to my eyes. It should have brought acquiescence, but deep down defiance was building. It surprised me.
My captor took a step back and looked down on me. “Don’t make me have to hurt you. All I want is the map.”
“I can’t give you what I don’t have.”
Closed fist this time, and aside from the teeth jarring, possible jaw-breaking, nose bleeding effect, I was starting to consider how long I could withstand this sort of beating.
“The map?” Patience was running thin, anger was building.
“I can’t…”
Several punches to the ribs and stomach, taking my breath away and making it very difficult to breathe. Pains where I’d never had pain before. I’d had beatings at school but never like this.
Once more a step back, I could now only see the black figure through blurry eyes.
Time to plead to deaf ears, “You can beat me to within an inch of my life, but I can’t give you what I don’t have. It’s as simple as that.”
And then I waited for the next round of punches.
A minute. Two.
Then a new voice, out in the void, said, “He doesn’t have it. This is a nothing but an elaborate hoax.”
Not a recognisable voice though.
A final blow rendered me unconscious.
© Charles Heath 2019
How thrilled Harry Walthenson, Private Detective, had been to see his name painted on the translucent glass window in the door to his office.
Located in Gramercy Park, in an old building full of atmosphere, he had a space renovated to resemble that of Spade and Archer in a scene right out of the Maltese Falcon.
His desk had an antique phone like those used in the 1930s, and a lamp that cast eerie shadows at night. Along one wall was a couch, his bed for more nights than he wanted to remember, and on the other a filing cabinet, waiting for the big case files.
Up till now it had been missing cats and dogs.
Then, everything changed…
Starts at episode 1 – The Wrong Place, The Wrong Time
Episode 109 – The end of one case and the start of another
Enjoy
This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.
Coming soon!
A single event can have enormous consequences.
A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.
A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?
A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.
A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.
After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.
From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.
Being a computer programmer, this word had a particular meaning for me, where a part of the programme did something other than expected.
Like unexpectedly stopping and freezing the screen. Some very famous programs and operating systems used to have a lot of these ‘bugs’.
More familiarly for all of us, a bug is an unwanted insect pest like a fly, or an ant, though there’s a host of those pesky ‘bugs’.
You could bug someone by hanging around and asking inane questions.
You could also bug someone by surreptitiously planting a microphone on them, or somewhere in their house, car, or office.
A person could have a bug, meaning there’s some germ or bacteria they’ve picked up that makes them very ill, like a cold, or pneumonia. Or, more than likely, it’s a bug going around. School children are particularly susceptible.
And if you like reading books you might have caught the reading bug.
You could tell someone to bug off, that is, to go away.
I might want to bug out, as in disappear, especially if there was someone I didn’t want to see.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Was I working for a ghost?
O’Connor seemed to be more affluent than I because he was living in a flat located in an upmarket building. Getting into the ground floor required a passkey, one I suspect might also be needed to get in the front door of his flat, but I’d worry about that later.
My first problem was that front door, and it was not until a tradesman exited that I took the opportunity to appear to arrive at exactly the same time, pretending to find my card, and brushing past him as he was exiting. He ignored me, his hands full, being in a hurry.
It took a day and a half of watching the building, waiting for an opportunity. His flat was on the third floor and although there was an elevator, I took the stairs, hoping that I wouldn’t run into anyone.
Quickly and quietly, and thankfully without seeing another resident, I came out into the passageway, and it was about ten steps to his front door. Number 37. Not far away, in one direction, the end of the passage, and numbers 38, 39, and 40. In the other, four more flats and the end of the corridor. Windows at either end, perhaps an escape route. I would not use the elevator if I had to leave in a hurry.
There were two elevators and one staircase. Both elevators were stationary on the ground floor.
I knocked lightly on the door to number 37.
No answer.
I knocked a little harder on the door. It was quite solid, and I had to wonder of the knocking sound penetrated the solid wood.
I checked the lock. Simple to open. We’d been given instruction by a master locksmith, and I’d brought my tools.
I waited a minute, checked to see if the elevators were still on the ground floor, then picked the lock, and was inside within a minute.
Silence.
I felt along the wall for a light switch, usually by the door, and found it, and flicked it on. The sudden light was almost blinding, but then my eyes adjusted.
Trashed, much the same as my flat.
But, with a difference.
A woman was stretched out on the floor, unmoving. I could see, from where I was standing, she had been hit on the back of the head and could see the wound, and a trickle of blood through her hair.
Five steps to reach her, I reached down to check for a pulse.
Yes, she was alive.
I shook her gently. She didn’t react. I shook her a little more roughly and she stirred, then, as expected, lashed out.
I caught her hands, saying, “I just found you. I’m not your enemy.”
Of course, taking into account I was a stranger, in her flat without permission, ignoring that and continuing to struggle was an option. Instead, she said, “Who are you?”
“A friend of O’Connor. I worked with him. Something happened to him at work and he said if that happened, I was to come here. He didn’t say anything about you, though.”
“I live here, in the flat next door. I heard a noise and came to investigate. That’s all I remember.”
I helped her up into a sitting position, and, holding her head, looked around. “Did you do this?”
“No. Just got here. But it’s the same at my place. The people who did this are looking for something. By the look of it, they didn’t find it here either.”
I let her go. “I’ll get a damp cloth for your head. It didn’t look serious.”
“It hurts though.”
I stood and went over to the kitchenette. O’Connor was not much of a cook, the benches looked new, and there was nothing out. I looked in a draw near the sink and found a cloth, still with the price tag on it. I ran it under the water, then went back to her, now off the floor and sitting on one of the two chairs. I handed her the wet cloth and she put it against the injured part of her head.
“Who are you again?”
“I worked with him. My name is Sam. It’s unlikely that he mentioned me to you, or anyone. It’s the nature of our work.”
“You told me your name.”
“I’m trying to be helpful.”
“What do you do, what did Oliver do?”
“That, I’m afraid, I can’t say, except that we work for the government, what you might call supervisory work. Usually, it’s very boring, but O’Connor’s latest assignment got him into trouble. He was trying to find a USB with stolen documents on it. We think it has information someone wanted to leak to the newspapers. Oliver found it, and that’s what some people are looking for.”
“He didn’t give it to me. And he never said exactly what he did, but it was as you said, something to do with the government.”
“Perhaps you should go back to your flat, and report this to the police.”
“And you?”
“I was never here. I’m sorry that we couldn’t prevent this happening to you, but it might be a better idea to say nothing and keep well away from here. It can only cause you trouble.”
“I think you’re right.”
She stood and started walking towards the door. Me staying any longer would raise her suspicions about me, and any search I was going to do would have to wait.
I opened the door, she walked out, and I followed shutting the door after me.
“You’re done?”
“There’s nothing for me. I found out what I needed to know, now it’s time to go.”
I left her standing outside the door, and headed for the stairs. A last glance back showed her still outside the flat. I went down to the first landing, then stopped. It was part of the training, to treat everyone as suspicious.
Then I heard her voice, as she passed the top of the staircase, on her way back to her flat. “He was here, looking for the files. No, he’s gone.” A minutes silence, then “On my way.”
Another minute, I heard the elevator car arrive on the third floor.
I quickly ran down the stairs to the ground floor and waited at the door until she came out of the elevator, and heading for the door.
Then as she passed through the front door, I came out into the foyer just in time to see a car stop out the front, and a familiar face out through the rear window.
Nobbin.
\© Charles Heath 2019
How thrilled Harry Walthenson, Private Detective, had been to see his name painted on the translucent glass window in the door to his office.
Located in Gramercy Park, in an old building full of atmosphere, he had a space renovated to resemble that of Spade and Archer in a scene right out of the Maltese Falcon.
His desk had an antique phone like those used in the 1930s, and a lamp that cast eerie shadows at night. Along one wall was a couch, his bed for more nights than he wanted to remember, and on the other a filing cabinet, waiting for the big case files.
Up till now it had been missing cats and dogs.
Then, everything changed…
Starts at episode 1 – The Wrong Place, The Wrong Time
Episode 108 – Sykes gets some answers
Enjoy
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Which, of course, means on this side of the world, that Spring is coming.
Perhaps not quite the news the hayfever sufferers want to hear, but it does mean everything in the garden will start to grow again, and, worst luck, also the weeds.
But, it is the end of the month, and it has been a reasonably good one.
Firstly,
My private detective, Harry Walthenson, has finally concluded his first case, and the final episode will be posted this week.
Then, he will be on a new case, yes, there’s no spare time for holidays and such, and, no, it will not be the search for a missing cat!
The latest episode is here: http://bit.ly/2Zqrk23
Secondly,
My serialised stories are progressing, and I’m striving to upload a new episode for each at least once a week.
The other thing that I’ve been working on, basically in those five minutes or so from when my head hits the pillow, till the moment I’m asleep, titles for each of the stories.
For the first, currently labelled with ‘I’ve always wanted to go on a treasure hunt’, I’ve been toying with the word ‘map’ and something witty, like ‘A Map to Trouble’, but it’s not exactly attention-getting. It needs more thought.
The latest episode is here: http://bit.ly/2YWuev1
For the second, currently labelled with ‘What happens after an action-packed start’, it starts in the desert, and will end in a dusty, desolate village in Africa, I’d like to have the word ‘Redemption’ in it.
The latest episode is here: http://bit.ly/2Ni2ABS
The others need more thought, as yet, and I know a title will pop out at me as I get further along with the story.
these stories are here: http://bit.ly/2TTlKzl and here: http://bit.ly/2HtEa4K
Thirdly,
There’s two new episodic stories coming, another one set during World War 2, involving a rescue, and one dealing with the investigation of a crime with a suspect that has all three criteria to be the number one suspect, and might be called, ‘Motive, Means, and Opportunity’.
Also the ‘Being Inspired, Maybe’ stories are continuing, the latest story, Number 65, published, and the next will be available in a day or so. The stories are the fun part of my week, as they usually get written while I’m waiting to collect my youngest granddaughter from school.
As for the novels, one is at the editor, and one is in mid-re-write.
If only there were more hours in a day!!!
